A story of Sherlock and Molly
by capricorn5
Summary: A small story between Sherlock and Molly. Poem belongs to me, based on another poem written to Sherlock Holmes. Asked by some who read my other fanfics.


**A story of Sherlock and Molly**

"Inside the heart of Sherlock Holmes,

Lies a broken, shattered mind,

Lies a man that never loved,

Lies the truth of what happened in 1895."

0

Molly sat down at the coffee table and put her purse on the chair next to her. She took her coat off and dismissed the waiter that came by asking if she would like anything to drink or the menu. She was waiting for someone and would order as soon and they got there, thank you. The waiter waved with his head and left, taking a second look at her face. She had dressed a bit for the occasion, she could not deny it. Lestrade was not very happy, but had accepted it. That was the thing about him, always so caring and honest, always so afraid of losing, never afraid of letting her know how he felt. They had been dating for two years now. Two years of pleasant surprises. He was kind and wanted the best for her. He was all she ever needed. Bought her flowers, always called, never forgot an important date, and always cheered her up when she needed it the most. Perfect. Yes. Then why did she felt a knot in her stomach every time she remembered the question he had popped up a week before? Why was she still shaking when she remembered his smile, the way he held her like she was everything that mattered in the world? He was the right man, the best man. Then, why did she felt like that?

The diamond ring reflected the lights from the ceiling. It was so beautiful. Not huge nor too small, just perfect in her small and thin fingers. It fit there so easily. She had said yes. And she was happy with her decision; she knew it was the best. The best for her, for her future, for her life. Still, for a tiny bit of a second before her mouth pronounced the words, a silhouette came to her mind. The shadow of a face, a ghost that had hunted her for so long she was not even sure when it had started. His greenish eyes, his lower voice, the rudeness and the feverish way he talked about things that he was passionate about, like crime and murder. All that came to her mind on that important moment. But it was so wrong, so wrong. She had dismissed it with a shake of her head and had said yes.

But then she went home, late at night, and sat there all alone, looking at the fireplace. She opened a cabinet and brought a small metallic box with her. As she opened it she saw all the memorabilia she had kept throughout the years. Small cards, notes he had taken ad left at the laboratory table. A picture she got from John from a Christmas party they had. She even kept the mug where he drank coffee; black, two sugars. She closed the box, leaning her head against the cold lid. That was so not right. And so unfair. Lestrade was a good man, the best man. The one for her. Then, why did she keep looking at that box once in a while? Why did she like reading the words he wrote one time 'I went to 221B. Don't worry, I'll be fine. SH' a few months after he faked his own death with her help? She damn well knew the answer. But, can you love two people at the same time? And can you love someone who never loved you back and always, always said the most awful things? He was crazy, yes. And drove her mad sometimes and, more than once, had used his charm on her to have her do what he wanted. Still, she wouldn't blame him. That little smirk on his face, the way he described one person with just a glimpse. All of that, the genius, was the reason she really liked him. Of course his looks were not at all bad, but what she liked the most was the side of him no one knew. The side of him she was not supposed to know. He had a heart. A heart that cared. For John, for Mrs. Hudson. Even for her.

She saw him getting out of the taxi, his black curls a mess, swirling in the wind. He looked around and waited for the taxi to drive away. He pulled the door of the coffee open and walked in. He removed his scarf and looked around. Their eyes met and for a second she saw again all they had seen on that night many years ago.

0

Molly walked in her apartment, a bag of groceries in hand. Before she could even remove her coat and take off her shoes, Sherlock came out of the living room and dragged her with him.

"Did you bring the cigarettes?" he asked. There was a tone in his voice she didn't like. A demanding tone. The sound of a maniac.

"Oh, I forgot!"

She totally had forgotten he had asked for the cigarettes. She should be helping him quit but it was already so much for him to stay inside every day, unable to go out the door and solve the many unsolved crimes he read on the newspaper. He used to shout at it, complaining how stupid people were, wondering why they didn't use their brains. Then he would calm down a few hours later and explain Molly why it was such a stupid thing, and who was the murderer and why. She was fascinated by the way he thought, the way he explained his theories. The way he talked to her. With time. The only time he actually talked to her for real was when he came to ask her for help to fake his death. Then, when he had broken Mrs. Hudson's, Mycroft's and John's hearts he moved to her house, a safe place to hide. Molly never had visits anyway. She was not a very social person and nobody ever stopped by. So, it was the perfect place to stay. It also had a back entrance, through which he could go in and out of the house whenever he wanted without being seen. She got him a disguise as well, to play it safe. He didn't like to eat. He didn't watch TV. He read many books she got him from the library and he made experiments with things she brought from the hospital. It was the only way to calm him down. He was very irascible and got mad easily. The only think she could not substitute was his violin, so he used to hear cd's she bought him instead. She also played piano for him sometimes, and he used to lie down on the couch with his eyes closed, a smile lingering in his mouth. That's when she loved him the most. When he listened to her playing anything at all and closed his eyes. Then she would finish and he would sit next to her and would choose a song for her to play. And she would play and he would listen again, following her fingers with his eyes.

"How could you have forgotten?" He asked, shouting again. "I haven't had a cigarette in two days, I asked you! It was not much to remember, just a bloody pack of cigarettes!"

She closed her eyes, trying to calm down. His anger was making her angry as well and she couldn't afford to lose it. He was filling a glass of water in the kitchen and threw it against the sink, shattering it to pieces. Molly shrank a bit, holding the back of a chair, the knuckles on her hands white with the pressure she was making. She tried to hold back the tears. He was being so unfair. She had tried everything she could to make things easier for him, and he was so ungrateful. She tried to stop the tears from falling by making some pressure on the bridge of the nose, but with no success. Sherlock was washing his hand that had a big cut from the small pieces of glass that ricocheted. He cleaned his hands with a kitchen cloth and turned around. Molly was still looking at the wall, not seeing it, and trying to fight back her tears. Sherlock stopped for a while, not knowing what to do. Then he stormed out the kitchen and held her arms with both his hands.

"Molly. Look at me." He whispered. She looked into his eyes. His hands were leaving a trace of blood on his shirt but she didn't want to remove them from there. The last thing she wanted was to move at all. Not only because it felt so good to have his hands holding her arms, but also because she was afraid that, if she moved, all of herself would shatter into pieces. "I am so sorry." He said. He was not good at apologising. Nor at comforting. "Will you forgive me? I have been going crazy in this place and I don't know what went through me. I am sorry." He repeated.

She nodded, tears streaming down her cheeks, because no matter how much she wanted, she just couldn't control them. He was such an idiot sometimes. He raised his hand to her face and cleaned her tears.

"I am still bleeding." He noticed.

She found the strength to move. Went to the bathroom trying to dry her own tears and came back with a few band aids and disinfectant.

"It's going to sting a bit." She said as she approached him, who was still standing next to the table.

He nodded. He didn't mind. She grabbed some tweezers and removed two tiny pieces of glass that were stuck in his skin. Then she disinfected the wound. He flinched a bit but other than that said nothing. She then put a band aid to cover the wound and closed his hand on her, letting go right away.

"Sorry." She said, apologising without even knowing why.

"It's okay." He said.

"I will make us something to eat." She said. And added, because that's who she was, and who she would always be: "Sorry I forgot the cigarettes, I will bring them tomorrow."

And before she turned away Sherlock saw sadness in her eyes, a shadow of the things he had put her through, not just the last months but since he had met her. He held her by one arm and she stopped abruptly, looking at him.

"Don't ever apologise to me again." He demanded. "I am not worth it."

He then let her go and turned away, leaving for his room.

Molly tried to call him when dinner was ready but Sherlock was in a world of his own and didn't even bother to open the door of his room. She didn't insist. It was better to leave him be.

She sat in the couch after eating dinner, on the side Sherlock used to occupy, and read a book. It was late when she looked at the clock. She had better go to bed. Tomorrow would be another day and he would make her sad again. It was always happening with Sherlock. Always. She closed the book and put him down, turned off the light so only a small chandelier was on. Sherlock liked to always have some light in the house. Maybe he was afraid of the dark. She smiled.

"You are smiling." Sherlock said, entering the living room.

"Yes, I was. I am sorry."

"Why are you always apologising? I told you not to apologise to me ever again."

"I don't know." She said. "I am sorry for that."

She looked at him and they laughed for a second.

"Is everything okay?" she asked.

"Yes. I am just having trouble to think. And I can't sleep. Could you play for me?" And then he noticed she was already on her pyjamas. "Oh, you were going to bed."

"No, it's okay." She said, shrugging. "I can play a little."

She sat at the piano and he lied on the couch, eyes already closed. She laid her hands on the keys, remembering a melody her mom used to play and sing to her when she was a kid. It was a very slow song with a sad lyric but it always comforted her. She played for a while, until her eyes adjusted to the dim light of the room. Then, as usual, Sherlock came to her side, sat on the bench and saw her hands play on the piano keys, like an old dance she had danced on and on and on. She stopped playing after a while, leaving her hands on the piano, resting.

"That's a beautiful song." Sherlock said. "You had never played that to me before."

Molly smiled half-heartedly.

"My mom used to sing it to me when I was a kid. She taught me how to play it as well, but I haven't played it in years. She died when I was ten. She was a good mom."

She said it simply. And she looked at Sherlock, staring into his eyes with a determination he had never seen before. She was coping with the pain pretending it didn't bother anymore. Just like he did. He didn't know what strange force came over him. But next thing he knew he was kissing her. Eyes opened, alert, but kissing her. She closed her eyes as soon as his lips met hers, and right before that he saw a glimpse of confusion in the frowning of her eyebrows. He pulled away, not sure why he had done it. She kept her eyes closed for a while longer. Then she stared at him. None of them said anything. She smiled a little. And then, with a slow movement of her head, she kissed him too. His eyes were open again, looking at her features but then her lips parted and he closed his own eyes, a strange feeling in the tip of his stomach, an overwhelming desire to hold her taking over him. She rested her hand on his neck, tracing small circles and then dived her fingers in his curly hair. He didn't pull away. He wanted to, though. Didn't he? But he did not pull away. He searched for her hair with his own fingers and found it tied on a pony tail. He removed the elastic from her hair and it fell to the ground. Her light brown hair fell on her shoulders and he played with it for a while, barely noticing what he was doing. It was her who pulled away first. She got up and dragged him to her bedroom. He followed her unsure and saw her removing her pyjamas, her simple underwear covering her body. She was beautiful. Pale skin with some imperfections. Her hair covered her breasts and she gave him her hand, pulling him close to her. Was this right?

"Molly, I…" He started.

She looked at him.

"What?" She asked, apprehensive.

"Nothing." Was all he managed to say.

She lay back on the thin sheets and he lay down close to her. She intertwined her fingers on his. There was a small smile dancing on her lips and Sherlock smiled as well, mimicking her face. Then she pulled close to him and kissed him, slowly and then more passionate and all he could think was how wrong that seemed and at the same time so right and that, no matter what, he did not wish to stop. So he didn't.

When the first rays of sun entered the room, illuminating their tangled bodies, Sherlock looked at her, so serene, in a sleep without dreams. He placed a kiss on her forehead and left to his own room, because he was sure, in that moment, that Molly did deserve a lot better than what he could ever give her. She did not deserve a broken heart but rather a bell jar. A bell jar where she could keep her heart away from any shattered glasses, and where she could still hear the songs her mom used to play to her and smile, despite all the reasons she had to cry.

0

Sherlock approached the table.

"Molly."

She was going to get up but he stopped her, the palm of his hand opened in front of her. He then sat.

"So, how are you?" He asked. He had the same look on his face he always wore, nonchalant and observant.

"Fine, I am fine." She said, not so sure.

"Why did you ask me to meet you here?"

"Sorry, were you busy?"

"No, I wasn't very busy. Quite a dull day if I may say so." He added. He still thought it was endearing the way she was always apologising, as if she thought she owed the world an apology for being in it. "So, what is it? Are you in any trouble?"

"Well, I kind of am, actually." Molly said. She picked a napkin from the table and started playing with it, unsure. Sherlock's eyes analysed her. Her hair was loose and she had put lipstick. No other make-up, though. Her hand… Sherlock stopped, looking at her right hand. There, a small reflecting stone, a silver band that fitted her delicate finger perfectly. An engagement ring.

"Congratulations." Sherlock said, before she could speak again.

"What?" she asked, losing track of what she was about to say. Then she followed his gaze that had not left her hand and blushed. "Oh, thank you. I… we are thinking about getting married in the autumn, maybe." She took a small breath and added. "Greg proposed to me a week ago. I said yes."

"Obviously." Stated Sherlock. His eyes were cold like two stones. "So, what do you need of me?"

"I…" Her voice trailed off and she stuttered, unsure where to start. She took a deep breath. "I and Greg, we have been dating for two years now. He is a wonderful man. He had his share of heart-breaks anyway."

"Sorry, but I don't…" started Sherlock. Get to the point Molly, he thought.

"Wait, please." She asked. "Let me tell you what I came here to say."

They looked at each other and Sherlock nodded, briefly. Then Molly started over.

"Like I said, we've been together for a while now and we are very happy. He respects me and treats me right and he's very easy to handle. Never causes trouble. Always surprises me and it's one of the best men I know." She swallowed hard before she continued. "The thing is… I've been with him all this time and then he proposed. It's the normal thing to do, I guess. No one ever proposed to me before." She smiled a bit. "It's good, to have someone telling you they want to spend their life with you. You feel special. And I said yes. Because I really think we are good for each other. That we both deserve to be happy. The thing is… He asked me to marry him. He said the words with a smile on his face, confident. And in that moment he asked, even though I do love him and I want to stay with him, all I could think was how much I wished he was…you."

Molly's eyes filled with tears and she repelled them, trying to focus on the table to avoid looking at Sherlock. Then, as he did not try to say anything, she continued.

"I don't even know for how long I've been feeling this for you, and I know you are so mean to me sometimes. And I've always tried to focus on that, and I have been successful so far. But then Greg makes the question and everything came back to me. Not just what I felt but… but also that night. And sometimes I wonder if I am not just trying to replace you and feeling that everything will be okay, when in the end, when I really look inside myself, it's you I think about. It's you I would like to hold and kiss and play the piano for. And if that's not unfair for Greg. Because he cannot compete with you, it's not fair, he doesn't have to. And I do love him. Just not the way I feel for you. I know I never told you this because I was always so afraid you would think I am ridiculous. But in the end, that's it. That's what I am and what I have and what I feel. And I need to know before I ruin everything. I really do."

Sherlock interlaced his own fingers and searched for Molly's eyes. She felt him trying to make her look at him and looked up finally.

"Listen Molly. I really think you are a lovely, amazing, clever woman. And I also think that you deserve to be with someone that makes you happy. I am not that someone."

"But… what happened that night..."

"I was swept away. My mistake." He said. "You felt lonely, like you always did. And I was overwhelmed with all the things that had happened. I let myself go." And he looked her in the eyes. "Listen, Molly. You don't want someone like me. I will break your heart and make you hate me and next thing you know we'll be both regretting that decision. Lestrade is a good man. I am just someone everybody hopes will become one. It's a simple choice."

"I just thought that, if you said that that night meant to you the same that meant to me, that…"

"But I won't say it, because it didn't, Molly. You must have been informed that I do not own a heart. Well, that's not a lie. I don't." He held her hand, the hand that had the ring and touched the diamond with the tip of his thumb. "Lestrade will make you happy. Happy as you deserve. As I will never be able to make. Don't waste your time on me, Molly Hooper."

He got up and gave her a kiss on the forehead and left, without turning back.

Molly stood there, looking at her hand and, for the first time in years, she cried. Not just because she had lost him forever, lost someone she never had, but because she knew that she had never had a place in his heart.

0

Sherlock walked for a while, wandered for dark and narrow streets. He sat on the floor in an empty alley. It was for the best. She would be happy. So happy. She would marry Lestrade and have babies and they would raise them and build a family and she would see she was better off without him. She would see how life can be so simple and kind to those who love. He closed his eyes and like she did that night, this many years ago, he put two fingers on the bridge of his nose, pressing it to avoid crying. Still, a few single tears fell down his face and he realised that Mycroft had failed after all. He did care. And he wondered why it couldn't be so simple. Love someone, have a family, be happy. And he pictured it in his head. A small baby, with curly, light-brown hair and Molly's eyes. Eyes so big that looked like shining marbles. A tiny, bright and lovely mind. He put his head between his hands and shook it, letting a sob escape from his mouth. Then he got up, cleaned the tears from his cheeks and put himself together. Enough. He thought. Now is enough.


End file.
